iNSaNiTY: HeTAliA
by PrussiaXAustria1000
Summary: The countries had never been more confused and heartbroken, dead and despairing, bleeding and dying... and yet so carefree... than throughout their moments of pure insanity. Based on the song: "iNSaNiTY" sung by by the Vocaloid Miki.


_No matter how we go on, it's always the same._

Bullets screamed past him, slamming into their marks, spreading black poison throughout the men who charged in a frenzied madness behind their leader. Spreading poison inside _him_, leaving the dark stains of impurity upon his very being.

_No matter how we go, how we turn to others, no matter how we seclude ourselves, no matter how hard we fight, it's never changed._

The screams. They filled the air vastly, warping the air into a thick substance of some sort, choking him on the sound of death and raging anguish. He was being throttled by his own mind, his own body twisting him into some indescribable monster.

_It will never change. It will be this way forever._

"This way, men! Hurry! We'll take them yet!" He gritted his teeth, gazing on as he watched his greatest general somehow manage to shout in this awful haze of death and blood, something that no man could even breathe in. "For the South! Charge on!"

_The South. The North… The Union or the Confederacy. Which one will it be? Who will win? … And if the South manages to win the war and secedes from the United States… what will happen to you?_

The Civil War was tearing him apart. His body arched to the bending, the near breaking of his bones and the mad, hot boiling of his blood. It wasn't metaphoric. His blood _was_ boiling, burning and scorching the vessels and veins inside him. He was becoming convinced that it would destroy him.

_Support slavery. Yes. Support it. Or no? Perhaps I shouldn't? Slavery is a way of life! It's only tradition that we should carry on using this method to pick our cotton… it's essential for me to keep it going on. It's what keeps out nation going forth. It's what giving me wealth… even England pays for our textiles…_

But no. Slavery is evil, brutal, inhuman. Who on earth would support such a cruel cause? Europe has never been in favour of slavery. Even they themselves know that it's an awful, horrible thing to do, awful and horrible and evil.

But it's essential to our way of life… No, it's not.

Yes. No. Yes. No. Was it really that much to start a war over? Was it really an argument whether Lincoln should take the initiative to bring the South back to the Union?

Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn't. For all he knew, if the South left, he could be left weak and powerless. Perhaps there was another "him" somewhere out there already. Perhaps it was already waiting for its half of the US to secede so that it—or was it a he?—could take a new, full form, much like America's. That would be only if the South managed to break away. But if he won? If he did? Then what? Would he still carry on, self-conflicted, torn apart inside, for years and centuries to come?

He woke up every morning dripping in sweat and cold, scared, blonde hair matted and disheveled as he buried his face in his hands. What would become of him?

_He was going insane._

"Why? Why me?" He no longer had a form—a body that belonged to himself. He could not stand to fight in his own civil war, a war where no one was there to fight him but…

"No one but myself." Yes. That was who there was to fight. Himself. Just himself. He was going to… to…

"I'm not going to make it… out this time… Not without scars…"

Not without scars that stretched from his legs to his spine. Not without the dark, coarse lines that pulled his skin away from the neck to the collarbone. Not without pain, and horror, and death—

Not without a taste of bitter, sweet, and sour iNSaNiTY.

He woke every day, not knowing who he was or where, only that there was one side of him that struggled to overcome the other. One day, he woke up in grey.

The next, he found himself in blue.

But never to fight. He could never fight a fight against himself, only on the inside could he do so—in his mind and in his own body. He could only watch his men be slaughtered on the battlefield, and then he would feel it in his own self.

A gunshot wound there. A bullet here, to the heart. A knife in the back of the head. Blood dripping down his face, his cheek, dribbling over chapped and scarred lips.

He felt every bit of it. Every one of his men that died sent a tremour of fury and anguish through his breaking, snapping spine. He swore that it would never end. All this pain and agony, it was meant to last forever. He _hated_ it.

… And yet he loved it. He loved every bit of it, because it made him feel close to the end… close to being free.

_I don't have to do any of this anymore._ He knew it. _I don't have to have my heart break anymore._

I don't have to die again. I don't have to break inside every time I see England look at me like tHaT. Like I am iNsANe. But I'm not. I'm going to be carefree. I'm going to be independent!

Independent to tear himself apart, yes. Independent to die from the wounds that his own men creative, the deep, bleeding holes that they created in his heart and flesh.

"I-I… I'm not… Not… insane. Not… n-never have been… I'm happy."

But he was insane. He was lost, insane, carefree, and he loved every moment of it. He was happy, even though he was dying inside and outside, and they all knew it. The way that England looked at him with tears in his eyes, even though he tried to hide it so badly—as if he knew that it was going to be the end of his little brother. The war was tearing America apart.

The glasses lay askew on his face, broken and covered in blood. His back was lashed and bloody, as if whipped by riding crops and leather belts, as had been done to the slaves. Scars covered his thin, slender body, a body that was once so young and healthy.

"I'm not in-insane. Look a-at me. C-Can't… can't you see h-how carefree I am?" A bloody smile. This showed just how insane he really was.

One who does not know how insane he is is one that is truly insane.

He wrote himself a letter every night before bed. Yet another sign that he was splitting into two. He smiled so often as the scars ran down and through his body, although he acted as if it were pleasurable. Perhaps he thought it was so?

He often spoke his favourite line. This line that he loved very dearly was unknown, never spoken before. It was something that never had been uttered in history by any before him.

"The unneeded meaning from the start until the end"

What a strange line it seemed. They all wondered about it, but none asked. They feared the answer they would receive.

When the war ended… it was as if a heavy weight had been dropped upon America. He stumbled back and forth between days and hours, countries and capitals, in a complete haze, looking as if he'd never been more pained, and only now did he feel the scars and the loss of blood.

"But during the war, he never looked… more carefree."

How very strange it all was.

"The unneeded meaning from the start until the end"

That England thought as he fingered a tapestry of the Civil War in America's home. He wasn't sure of all this—what had it all meant?

"_But… Alfred… I think. I just might understand."_


End file.
